The old, deeply, thoroughly skin-blotched Chin-Malay man taking his seat here by virtue of the cup he has purchased. Moving to the seat he passed a young, thick-bodied lass who looked up at him with recognition and familiarity. While the man sought his table the woman held her look, head uplifted, bright-eyed and very fixed. Just at the point before he began slowly and deliberately lowering himself into his chair, the man returned her look, thrust out his hand and pointed downward.
In a flash the woman had
risen to her feet, fairly leapt up. Just this sign she had looked and hoped
for. Previously she had been seated on the parapet wall here alongside the
eatery, beside the tables by the stairway directly across from the Joo Chiat
Road intersection. The large lidded barefoot hobo who usually sleeps nights out
at the Haig Road bus-stop is presently stretched there on the other side of the
plantings. Mornings he can usually be found here a hundred metres away at
Geylang Serai. No doubt the early commuter traffic drives him from Haig Road.
The Chin-Malay might be in his late sixties, if not passed beyond. Short, stocky, often with a money-belt strapped over his belly. There is not much salted away there you can be sure. This is Struggletown the precinct around Geylang Serai. Still, with food cheap, a roof over the head, the battle cannot overwhelm hardy old-timers like himself.
The mixed features in the case of this Chin-Malay man are fairly plain, though this ang moh is far from any kind of reliable expert of course. The skin condition can be seen quite commonly around this bottom end of Geylang, usually on the men. The women had perhaps taken better precaution against the sun, if that is the genesis of the condition. Like the others, this man's skin is fairer, with the strips and blotches that appear to have been peeled away in rosy, porcine pink. Two symmetrical patches have been taken from above each eye-brow; as if a thick band-aid had been pulled there. The rest of it was uneven, irregular splotches over the cheeks and possibly chin. Of course one could not peer too closely.
The man always shows a gruff exterior. Every right granted. This might have been the reason why the woman on the parapet was completely uncertain whether the sign would come. Until the finger had pointed the only movement was with her eyes, upraised and carefully tracking. The man might have inclined his head and nodded; instead of which the heavy hand raised high, finger showing, Here. The allowance involved could hardly be read in the gesture — only in the woman's attitude and reaction.
Almost certainly the woman is a Malay, or more distant Indonesian, who has made it across to Batam, from where she awaits her periodic opportunities here. It is a twenty dollar ferry ride to Singapura and usually takes a number of hundred to flash in the wallet at Customs for means of support — in the case of Malays or Indons. Early - mid-thirties. Most of the Malay-Indons gals who gather here at these Geylang Serai eatery tables are of that range; a minor group younger.
— Revision upward of the old man: he had gotten up to purchase something and now rounded back with his bag of goodies. No doubt whatever he has cleared his sixties. Might even be nearing mid seventies possibly. The further raw pink patches are all around his mouth, large blotches across his cheeks and showing through sparse white moustache and goatee.
The women here, the Sumatran and Javanese Batam women, pick up work at the market and hawker stalls. The local old men pick up the women when the fancy strikes. Many of the women sleep rough, here in the dark corners of the market, nearby car-parks and similar nooks. An invitation to one of the HDB flats is a godsend. Though Indonesian administered, Batam is in fact an outpost of Singapore, full of industrial estates and drawing cheap labour from throughout the region. More than a dozen have gathered here now, all with large shoulder bags. The rates in the kitchens and helping in the stalls is around $50 per day, eight or ten hours, sometimes twelve. Better than in Batam and far better than what is on offer in their native kampungs.
On the old Chin-Malay's thinning scalp the same sharp pink showing through. The skin must be tender to the touch. Perhaps because it is morning there is no hat. The old man would need careful loving. Another woman has joined the table in his absence and he has pulled up a seat in the aisle, holding court a little.
There are three or four Malay-Indon lads amongst the women, younger labouring men who are not sexual partners, or not of any limiting kind. Often these young men are darker than the women, who likely use the ubiquitous whitening creams. (An $11.5m industry in Singapore on 2007 figures. Oh for the fair alabaster of Ameri-Euro film and advertising!)
The other, older hobo who possibly collects aluminum and cardboard like the karung guni, though in his case casually and erratically, came over for a word with the sleeper on the parapet. This man is ten or fifteen years older, well into his sixties. Carefully, almost on tip-toe and with a smile on the approach, he padded across. Gently, in some quiet way that was mostly screened by the ferns, he had awoken the youngster. Words were exchanged, the elder maintaining throughout a warm, avuncular smile. Lately this chap has begun chalking messages in block letters on the pavements at traffic lights around the place, a local Eternity man. One fellow who was asked suggested it might be his own name the man was penning for the by-passers.
A remarkable baby-face the younger hobo always shows stretched out this bottom end of Geylang, broad and wide lids large enough to carry the largest coin perfect for shuttering out the busy street. In peaceful repose on one of his campaigns, the battle-hardened Roman Senator. A handsome face, especially closed-eyed, carrying strong hints of the vulnerable boy beneath. Once or twice the man has been bought teh tariks unbidden. Never does the man seem to beg. The busy places of congregation draw him like many hobos. In the heat of the later afternoon he sits on the edge of the footpath in front of the supermarket taking advantage of the cool blast streaming from the doorway. Later with the sun further down he takes up a post around the rear of Joo Chiat Complex in front of the jeweler. Unlike the Chinese, he is not down on his haunches: flat on his bottom propped on an arm, legs curled around him.
The first time he was bought the t. t. he was unexpectedly found up at the Tasvee tables in the middle of Geylang Road, well outside his usual orbit. When the drink first landed in front of him he shook his head — he had made no such order. Earlier he must have bought something himself as otherwise he would certainly have been moved on. Like anywhere else, you don't win a place at table without purchase here. Following the waiter's pointer the sighting of his benefactor brought no sign of surprise; nothing to suggest recognition from a kilometre or two down the road. All taken perfectly in stride. A raised forefinger and nod quite sufficient acknowledgement, duly given. It was the beginning of the relationship. A month or two later closer to home he had been offered another teh that was declined. Again in the same form: No thanks. Thank you. Others buy him drinks and food of course. The Malay community do not let their people starve. If all else fails the local mosque up Joo Chiat Road puts on lunches. We get on roaringly now, confirmed allies and friends. No great shows needed, words and a shared language immaterial. Almost never is it possible to get by the Roman without the salutation being raised, the unique and impressive greeting: the forefinger upright, perfectly perpendicular, chin-high and fully extended, in tandem with the double nod — once and the shorter second. The Chairman of the committee within the chamber beautifully channeled: We will get to you presently, sir. Just a moment if you will.
The Chin-Malay might be in his late sixties, if not passed beyond. Short, stocky, often with a money-belt strapped over his belly. There is not much salted away there you can be sure. This is Struggletown the precinct around Geylang Serai. Still, with food cheap, a roof over the head, the battle cannot overwhelm hardy old-timers like himself.
The mixed features in the case of this Chin-Malay man are fairly plain, though this ang moh is far from any kind of reliable expert of course. The skin condition can be seen quite commonly around this bottom end of Geylang, usually on the men. The women had perhaps taken better precaution against the sun, if that is the genesis of the condition. Like the others, this man's skin is fairer, with the strips and blotches that appear to have been peeled away in rosy, porcine pink. Two symmetrical patches have been taken from above each eye-brow; as if a thick band-aid had been pulled there. The rest of it was uneven, irregular splotches over the cheeks and possibly chin. Of course one could not peer too closely.
The man always shows a gruff exterior. Every right granted. This might have been the reason why the woman on the parapet was completely uncertain whether the sign would come. Until the finger had pointed the only movement was with her eyes, upraised and carefully tracking. The man might have inclined his head and nodded; instead of which the heavy hand raised high, finger showing, Here. The allowance involved could hardly be read in the gesture — only in the woman's attitude and reaction.
Almost certainly the woman is a Malay, or more distant Indonesian, who has made it across to Batam, from where she awaits her periodic opportunities here. It is a twenty dollar ferry ride to Singapura and usually takes a number of hundred to flash in the wallet at Customs for means of support — in the case of Malays or Indons. Early - mid-thirties. Most of the Malay-Indons gals who gather here at these Geylang Serai eatery tables are of that range; a minor group younger.
— Revision upward of the old man: he had gotten up to purchase something and now rounded back with his bag of goodies. No doubt whatever he has cleared his sixties. Might even be nearing mid seventies possibly. The further raw pink patches are all around his mouth, large blotches across his cheeks and showing through sparse white moustache and goatee.
The women here, the Sumatran and Javanese Batam women, pick up work at the market and hawker stalls. The local old men pick up the women when the fancy strikes. Many of the women sleep rough, here in the dark corners of the market, nearby car-parks and similar nooks. An invitation to one of the HDB flats is a godsend. Though Indonesian administered, Batam is in fact an outpost of Singapore, full of industrial estates and drawing cheap labour from throughout the region. More than a dozen have gathered here now, all with large shoulder bags. The rates in the kitchens and helping in the stalls is around $50 per day, eight or ten hours, sometimes twelve. Better than in Batam and far better than what is on offer in their native kampungs.
On the old Chin-Malay's thinning scalp the same sharp pink showing through. The skin must be tender to the touch. Perhaps because it is morning there is no hat. The old man would need careful loving. Another woman has joined the table in his absence and he has pulled up a seat in the aisle, holding court a little.
There are three or four Malay-Indon lads amongst the women, younger labouring men who are not sexual partners, or not of any limiting kind. Often these young men are darker than the women, who likely use the ubiquitous whitening creams. (An $11.5m industry in Singapore on 2007 figures. Oh for the fair alabaster of Ameri-Euro film and advertising!)
The other, older hobo who possibly collects aluminum and cardboard like the karung guni, though in his case casually and erratically, came over for a word with the sleeper on the parapet. This man is ten or fifteen years older, well into his sixties. Carefully, almost on tip-toe and with a smile on the approach, he padded across. Gently, in some quiet way that was mostly screened by the ferns, he had awoken the youngster. Words were exchanged, the elder maintaining throughout a warm, avuncular smile. Lately this chap has begun chalking messages in block letters on the pavements at traffic lights around the place, a local Eternity man. One fellow who was asked suggested it might be his own name the man was penning for the by-passers.
A remarkable baby-face the younger hobo always shows stretched out this bottom end of Geylang, broad and wide lids large enough to carry the largest coin perfect for shuttering out the busy street. In peaceful repose on one of his campaigns, the battle-hardened Roman Senator. A handsome face, especially closed-eyed, carrying strong hints of the vulnerable boy beneath. Once or twice the man has been bought teh tariks unbidden. Never does the man seem to beg. The busy places of congregation draw him like many hobos. In the heat of the later afternoon he sits on the edge of the footpath in front of the supermarket taking advantage of the cool blast streaming from the doorway. Later with the sun further down he takes up a post around the rear of Joo Chiat Complex in front of the jeweler. Unlike the Chinese, he is not down on his haunches: flat on his bottom propped on an arm, legs curled around him.
The first time he was bought the t. t. he was unexpectedly found up at the Tasvee tables in the middle of Geylang Road, well outside his usual orbit. When the drink first landed in front of him he shook his head — he had made no such order. Earlier he must have bought something himself as otherwise he would certainly have been moved on. Like anywhere else, you don't win a place at table without purchase here. Following the waiter's pointer the sighting of his benefactor brought no sign of surprise; nothing to suggest recognition from a kilometre or two down the road. All taken perfectly in stride. A raised forefinger and nod quite sufficient acknowledgement, duly given. It was the beginning of the relationship. A month or two later closer to home he had been offered another teh that was declined. Again in the same form: No thanks. Thank you. Others buy him drinks and food of course. The Malay community do not let their people starve. If all else fails the local mosque up Joo Chiat Road puts on lunches. We get on roaringly now, confirmed allies and friends. No great shows needed, words and a shared language immaterial. Almost never is it possible to get by the Roman without the salutation being raised, the unique and impressive greeting: the forefinger upright, perfectly perpendicular, chin-high and fully extended, in tandem with the double nod — once and the shorter second. The Chairman of the committee within the chamber beautifully channeled: We will get to you presently, sir. Just a moment if you will.
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